


Lazy Daisy Cake

by TheVineSpeaketh



Series: Tony's God-Awful Senior Year [6]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, M/M, Nightmares, Not Really Character Death, Pansexual Character, Polyamory, Tony Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVineSpeaketh/pseuds/TheVineSpeaketh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, he resolved to tell them everything.</p>
<p>Tony and EVERYBODY. Brace yourself for feels (maybe?).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazy Daisy Cake

Smoke blackened the sky. A day once beautifully blue and cloudless was now shrouded in a sheet of soot, the air thick with the smell of burning buildings and blackness. The ground was strewn with the wreckage of buildings, great boulders of cement settled on roadsides and sidewalks. Lampposts were grounded, their glass panels scattered in shards across the ground. Dust and dirt were everywhere, unavoidable. A few hydrants on the roadsides had burst, water raining over the ruins of the city, as if begging something to grow from the damage and wreckage strewn about them.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. This is what he had been telling himself the whole of his life. He was not supposed to be lying there on the ground, broken by the machines that had so faithfully protected him, that had served him so well in so many battles before. He vaguely supposed it served him right for all the things he’d done before to be stabbed in the back by his own creations. Though, he supposed, shifting the little he could in the wreckage of his Iron Man suit, it wasn’t so much being stabbed metaphorically in the back as being stabbed quite violently in the front. He supposed his stomach had definitely been ruptured. His sides were warm with blood. His every breath was agonizing, the slightest effort to speak excruciatingly painful. He could do nothing but lay to waste as he waited for someone to find him, hopefully soon, before he became a corpse.

He wondered if they would find him staring at the blackened sky as if wishing for a gap in the dark clouds; and if they found him after death had swept by and claimed him, would his eyes be glassy and stuck forever gazing skyward, longing for the sun to shine? Would they find him with his eyes closed, as if disappointed he had been denied his last wish? Would they weep for his loss? Would they stomach it, strong for the sake of others as well as themselves?

It all depended on who would find him, he supposed. His breath shuddered and he coughed a globule of blood, but it popped like a bubble in his mouth. He swallowed as much as he could before he lost himself to thought again, his eyes fleeting around the space of the sky as he pondered. Would it be Natasha, the first Avenger who he had even met, pseudonyms be damned? Would she stand by his body and stare down at him stoically? Would she check for vitals and then act as though she didn’t care? Would she be relieved to see him gone? Would a flash of panic enter her usually controlled gaze? Would her eyes glaze just as his soon would, as if lost in thought? He briefly wondered what it would be like to feel the touch of her lips, to hold her hand in his, before his thoughts strayed elsewhere.

What if it was Barton who found him? Would he call to Coulson on the comms, ever faithful of his handler, and ask for medical help? Or would he take one look at him and deem him beyond saving? Would he sit by his side, expressionless, motionless, guarding him without a word? Would he speak to Tony, just drone on about something to keep his mind off the bleeding wound in his gut? Would he inquire on Tony’s life, seeking stories from him, if only to find a reason to remember him besides the obvious? Would he even care? He wondered of Clint’s affections, too, thinking about what it would be like to pull his taut body close, to see the usually passive face break into an unguarded smile. Those thoughts, too, moved on to other things.

What if Thor found him? He could already see in his mind’s eye the hulking body of their resident God of Thunder moving toward him slowly, as if approaching a wild animal. Would he drop Mjolnir and rush to his aid? Would he walk slowly and quietly, as if already mourning the dead? Would he worry over Tony if he was still alive, grasping him in his arms and pulling him near? Would he whisper comforting words, attempting to soothe him? Would he cry when he realized that Tony was dying, and could not be saved? Those arms closing around him would be like being buried in a silver coffin, forever to rest without being disturbed, and Tony could see himself quite enjoying that. Falling into the eternal sleep with arms clasped around him and the tips of blonde hair falling on his cheeks was something he could look forward to, and even accept.

But if it was Loki, he thought, would it be the exact opposite, as he had come to expect from the brothers? Would he approach quietly, calculatingly, the way he normally did? Would he lean in and stoop over Tony, simply gazing into his eyes? Would he say empty words or simply stay quiet as he watched the light fade from Tony’s eyes? Or would he show compassion as he had never done before, kneeling to be by Tony’s side? Would he be distraught, his eyes tracing his facial features to the very last, as if trying to memorize him and keep him alive in his memory? Would he attempt to see his injuries with magic? Would his face fall as he realized that he could not be saved? Would he spare a few silver words from his tongue to comfort Tony as he faded into darkness? Tony could not deny, falling asleep to his voice speaking, for once, not words of hatred or contempt, but words of acceptance, of open regret and sadness. At least then he could die knowing that those words carried him on with purpose and meaning behind them.

What if Rogers found him? He smiled, then, a bit of blood dribbling from the crack in his lip, a bit more bubbling up his throat. It brushed his sinuses, and he sneezed, letting loose a cry as the motion jarred his stomach. He could feel a new blob of blood oozing down his side. His time was short, he knew that much. _Stay calm. Think of Rogers._

Ahh, Rogers. Rogers, he knew, would show sadness at his death. Despite not getting along a majority of the time, Tony knew that Steve cared for every facet of the team. But to what extent would Steve really care if Tony bit it? Would he try to rally Tony into living, begging him through first commands and then pleas for him to stay? Would he try to remove the shrapnel in some vague attempt to preserve Tony, to keep him safe and whole? Would he be distraught, yet commanding, as if Tony was just another soldier? Would he will him awake and worry over him, but show no affection? Or would he weep, just as Tony would weep to leave him? Steve had not left Tony bereft of anything in all the time they had known one another, and Tony was grateful for that. Every time the night terrors had overtaken him, Steve was there, a hard hand on his shoulder, reassuring him that everything was okay, and filling him silently with a love that he secretly cherished.

What if it was Banner? Would he still be Hulked out or would he be human? If he was hulked, would he stay that way? Or would the sight of Tony turn him back into Banner? If he changed back, would Banner kneel by his side, not regarding his nakedness, if only to be with Tony one last time? Would he touch his face, trace the outline of his eyes and his nose, the lines on his forehead? Would they wait in silence? Would Tony be strong enough to tell him that Bruce was the greatest man he had ever known? And what if Bruce didn’t change back? Would Hulk shout and bellow into the sky, as if cursing some unknown gods for what was happening to Tony? Would he pick Tony up and carry him to safety, to where the rest of them were staying?

He didn’t know the answer to any of these questions, but they were ones he liked to pose. They kept him warm as the unforgiving cold closed in on him. The life was draining from his limbs, he could feel it; his fingers were cold as death and he couldn’t feel them, white noise rippling under his skin as he fought to stay awake, his eyes growing heavy. These questions were ones he liked to think about to keep him thinking, to keep him awake, because he always relied on his brain to do things like that for him. But it wasn’t working so well this time. Black was clouding the edges of his vision, leaving his eyes trapped with nothing but a sky darkened by battle. He hoped it would be over soon, despite the pain leaving him. It scared him to feel so little while knowing so much was happening. He knew it meant he was dying, and it broke him.

For a while, he simply laid there, counting the gaps in the clouds and trying to remember how to breathe. Through his haze the crunching of rubble could be heard closing in all around him, and he vaguely wondered if the world was opening to swallow him whole, as he thought it would. Instead of the earth consuming him, he was met with the sight of all of his aforementioned final thoughts gathered around him, staring down at him with expressionless faces. He bled beneath their eyes, but still he smiled, for looking at each of their faces he could find no traces of physical pain, only some of the emotional and mental kind. They were all okay. Tears fell from his eyes.

He tried to speak, but Natasha, who was closest to his face on his left, leaned in low, crouching next to him. She brushed the back of her fingertips down his cheekbone, following it until she reached the base of his ear, lulling him into silence with that one simple gesture. She gave him a smile, soft and beautiful on her features, and then leaned in close, kissing him chastely on his lips. He closed his eyes and melted, simply feeling the tips of her hair brushing his cheeks, her lips soft over his. His eyes opened once more as she left him, tears hazing her beautiful eyes. He smiled at her once more, and she smiled through her tears, distress evident in her features. She stood and moved, making room for the next Avenger, who kneeled next to him and did the same. Barton ran a thumb over his other cheek and stared into his eyes. Thor pressed his forehead to Tony’s and his tears fell onto Tony’s brow. Loki was pale and quiet, humming some unknown song into Tony’s ear as he held him for a moment. Steve shook as he held both of Tony’s cheeks, imploring him with his eyes to not forget them, not a single one. Banner was quiet and accepting, as if everything he loved left him, and it really did.

Tony leaned into each of their kisses, feeling a bit of himself leave him, clinging to their lips as they pulled away, lifting themselves up and pressing on. He wondered if they were aware that they took a piece of him with them as they walked away, and whether or not, if they did know, would they keep it close? Would they lick their lips and remember his taste, or would they attempt to swallow his presence and keep it close to them, willing it never to leave? Would it rub off on everything they ever touched? Would they measure their kisses carefully, as if attempting to waste him on things they only found worthy? Would they kiss among themselves to keep him alive and flowing, an amorphous creature to move amongst them, a spirit to live within each of them?

He choked. The sky was darkening swiftly now, and suddenly he didn’t want to go. The pull was strong, death’s hand clutched fast around his wrist, but he could feel something else, too. They all returned, every last one of them, grasping onto his questing arms as if to reassure him that they were there. Their faces filled his vision as he looked among them, no longer able to see the hopeless black sky. Their tears fell upon him like water to the parched earth, and it was in those tears that he could see future life. Their hands held fast to him like roots of the trees, and he knew that **this** was the earth swallowing him, that his time was now, but theirs were much later. Much life was yet in them. They were safe. He gave them a smile.

And then all faded into darkness as the cold overtook him, and he willingly let go of their hands to grasp onto those of whatever came after.

* * *

Tony sat up sharply, instantly reaching off to his right to pull on the switch to his lamp. He pulled it so vehemently that for a few moments afterward he could listen to the weight on the end of it clink on the body of the lamp as he sat there, the sheets pooled at his waist, his hands seeking his forehead, his bedspread, his bedframe, anything to reassure him of the fact that he was still alive, that it was, in fact, a dream, and a strange one at that.

He tried not to think too hard about this weird ‘Iron Man’ and ‘Avengers’ stuff, because he had no doubt that those were just things invented by his dreams to make sense of things. His mind was far too preoccupied to give them much thought anyway, because all he could remember were the faces of his friends leaning down over him and crying over him, the distinct feeling of each of their lips closing over his, the sensation that not only was he wanted and would be missed, but he was also **loved** , too. His body shook as he recalled the heartbroken look on Banner’s face, as if he was always bereft of those he loved, and the strange, twisted nostalgia Steve’s face harbored, as if this was his first time saying goodbye to someone he loved in person. He remembered Thor’s face as it scrunched in pain, open and wonderfully beautiful even in its grief, and Loki’s closed countenance, worried and broken despite appearing so composed. He remembered Barton – whose kiss, in reality, had only graced his lips but a week ago – kissing him as if he was meant for more than a death such as this, and Natasha, whose tears were out of place and yet so fitting in her eyes.

Why had it brought him comfort to be surrounded by these people as he lay dying? Why had he thought of **them** in a dream about death? He didn’t know. All he did know was that he still shook and tears made tracks down his cheeks. He thought about Pepper, about how good it would feel to cry with his face in her neck right now, about her arms wrapping around him with both ease of practice and acceptance, a fantasy almost like a memory, distant and fading in the aftershock of his dream. The farther he moved in time away from the dream, the less connected he felt to these people, and he longed for the feeling to come back to him again.

In the end, he resolved to tell them everything. He resolved not to shut his mouth about these matters anymore. Something within him intrinsically said that he needed these people, and nothing in his waking moments would keep him from expressing that sentiment aloud. He spoke his mind about everything else; surely talking about love would do no more harm than his other actions?

He shook his head, wiping his face roughly of his tears and picking up his cell phone from his nightstand. He looked at the time – 2 in the morning – and turned the screen off, setting it back on the nightstand. He sat there for a moment, blank of all thought before slowly lowering himself back to his bed, feeling clammy as he wondered whether or not he’d dream of dying again. As he pulled the light switch again, he had a sudden revelation that encouraged him to close his eyes again.

If he could dream that dream again, he would, if only to feel their love wash over him again, their lips on his, and their hands on his skin, even if he had to forsake their grip again.

**Author's Note:**

> Why “Lazy Daisy Cake” for the title? Traditional dessert for funerals in my hometown. Simple as that.
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr!](http://exacteyewriting.tumblr.com)


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